


that groove has gotten so deep

by out_there



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Mission Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:47:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23093557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/out_there/pseuds/out_there
Summary: "I thought Shanghai was supposed to be a break," says the note left on the single bed. It's in Barton's scrawled handwriting, a chicken-scratch pattern of lower-case letters, heavily slanted to the left.Phil tucks the note away in his pocket and looks around the room. Dingy off-white walls, industrial orangey-mustard carpet and cheap polyester bedspread. As far as safehouses go, it's a big step down from the Ritz.Then again, Phil remembers how much room service Barton ordered over four days at the Ritz. It's hardly a coincidence they're not assigned nice hotels anymore. Plus, there was that whole exploding chandelier incident.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Comments: 37
Kudos: 169





	that groove has gotten so deep

**Author's Note:**

> This story took far too long to finish, but it's finally done. Title from Alanis Morissette's "Reasons I Drink". Thanks to Misbegotten for betaing.

"I thought Shanghai was supposed to be a break," says the note left on the single bed. It's in Barton's scrawled handwriting, a chicken-scratch pattern of lower-case letters, heavily slanted to the left.

Phil tucks the note away in his pocket and looks around the room. Dingy off-white walls, industrial orangey-mustard carpet and cheap polyester bedspread. As far as safehouses go, it's a big step down from the Ritz.

Then again, Phil remembers how much room service Barton ordered over four days at the Ritz. It's hardly a coincidence they're not assigned nice hotels anymore. Plus, there was that whole exploding chandelier incident.

Shanghai was supposed to be easy. Their target was an obvious bad guy and they had a ten day window to take him out. Barton got him on the second day, and now they're stuck here for another week in a seedy hotel on the outskirts of Lujiazhen, with a single bed and carpet Phil doesn't want to walk on in bare feet.

"At least the hot water works," Barton says, stepping out of the closet pretending to be an ensuite. He's dripping wet, towel wrapped dangerously low around his hips. On anyone else, exposing that long V of hip bone would be a seduction ploy... but this is Barton. Phil averts his eyes before he witnesses the great Hawkeye lose another battle with gravity. He feels justified at the sudden squawk of "Aw, towel, no!"

"Get some sleep?" Phil asks, eyeing the mussed sheets and dented pillow. When he looks away from the bedspread, Barton's wearing a very tight pair of boxers-briefs. They're an obnoxiously bright purple, but Phil's just glad Barton packed underwear. (Barton's idiosyncratic approach to "necessities" has led to a number of his missions completed while going commando. Phil's learned to pack extra boxers, just in case.)

"Six hours. Was starting to go stir crazy lying around so--" Barton pulls a t-shirt on, and then stands there in his boxers, rubbing at his hair. "Shower. What did they say?"

Phil doesn't sigh. He wants to but he doesn't. "Extraction in seven days."

"Did you point out we could just get on a commercial flight? It's not like we're stuck in BFE. There's an international airport a cab ride from here."

"They want us to stay. There might be a secondary target."

"There's never a secondary target," Barton says, and Phil knows he's right. He could count on one hand the number of times a team has had to deal with a target that wasn't part of the initial briefing, and he'd still have fingers left over.

But orders are orders. They're not getting out of here any time soon.

"There's not much of a gym," Phil says, "but it's got weights and a treadmill. I'm going to take a nap."

***

The first international mission Phil worked with Barton was in Bogota. Technically, they weren't working together. Barton was there as an extra sniper for a strike team and Phil had a hunch. There was something hokey about the mission plan, something that made his back teeth itch even though it all looked fine on paper. So he'd flown out as an extra contingency, another set of eyes in the safe house and another voice on the comms.

He hadn't known Barton well. Hadn't known him as more than a specialist Nick brought in with a bullet wound and a signed employment contract (not the first, not the last), but there were only so many rooms in the safe house.

He remembers Barton unpacking his bag, carefully pulling out his bow, a simple yet graceful weapon that Barton treated tenderly. He pulled out arrows and checked the fletching, and then knives and a Sig. Then he pulled out three t-shirts and a pair of combat pants, and a bathroom kit.

Phil had looked at the emptied bag and raised an eyebrow.

Barton sneered back. "What?" 

"Did you forget something?"

Barton reached into his empty bag, feeling around the corners. "Nope."

"Underwear?"

Barton pulled his head back, and then looked at the items spread out over the bed. "Huh," he said and then, "...oops."

"That doesn't inspire confidence, Specialist."

"Don't get your panties in a bunch." Barton's grin was mischievous, like a boy caught raiding the cookie jar. For a moment, Phil had been surprised by the tug of attraction. Scruffy, dark blond hair and a cheeky smile wasn't his type at all. "I can still shoot."

Phil turned back to his laptop, but he made time later to pull up Barton's file and get more information on the man.

***

Phil wakes up at a beep and the snick of the door unlocking. He reaches a hand down the side of bed, feeling for the gun lying on the questionable carpet.

"Just me," Barton says, and Phil lets go of the gun and sits up a little.

"Time?"

"Nearly six." Barton frowns, rolling his impressively muscular shoulders. Unsurprisingly, his tank top is pale purple. "Too early for dinner?"

"Room service," Phil insists, knowing they need to lie low for as long as they can. Or until they start shooting the walls or each other. "Want to order?"

"So you can laugh at my Shanghainese?"

It's not that Barton's got bad language skills. He's got a smattering of European languages, and a good grasp of Asian languages, especially the main Chinese dialects. But he somehow always sounds as if he has no clue what he just said. Great for playing the stranded American tourist but useless in any other situation. Natasha finds it hilarious.

Then again, Natasha always looks amused when Phil speaks Russian. She won't say it, but his Muscovite accent needs work.

Phil gestures at the room around them. They've got one bed, a set of drawers and an old TV. There's also a pair of bedside tables and a bench built into the wall. (A desk? A dressing table? A shelf for storing suitcases? It's probably meant to be all three.) "Not a lot of other entertainment options," he says, but they both know Phil will call and order. Barton isn't officially staying here; officially, Barton isn't even in the country.

Barton scowls at the menu. It's handwritten and photocopied, and Phil doesn't know why he'd hoped for anything else. "Want anything in particular?"

"Does anything look good?"

"Don't get your hopes too high." Then Barton grins. "The beef should be okay."

***

There were a few meals shared on that first mission, but eating on a mission is all about practicality. Sharing a meal doesn't mean anything. The first time Phil voluntarily shares a table with Barton is nearly two weeks later in the SHIELD cafeteria. Barton's walking across the room, tray stacked with food and balanced precariously on the cast on his right arm, and Phil pushes out a chair for him.

"Barton."

Barton's eyebrows jump and he glances around the half empty room, at the other SHIELD personnel and the spare tables. There's no shortage of available chairs. "I handed in my AAR," Barton says, pausing and then deciding to place his tray on the table.

Phil gives him a flat stare. He has better things to do than chase irresponsible agents for mandatory paperwork. "I know. I've read it."

"But you felt like company?"

"Don't make me regret it," Phil warns and Barton grins, dropping gracelessly into the plastic seat.

Barton's tray is stacked with food. There's fried rice, beef goulash and meatloaf, fries and roast vegetables and a chicken stir fry. There's even some kind of pasta in there. Barton digs in like it's an All You Can Eat Buffet and he has to get his money's worth. (Not true. The food is complimentary.) Phil thinks of Barton's file, and wonders how long it will take Barton to stop stacking his tray like that. How long it takes to trust the simple security of knowing your next meal will be there. If Barton will ever take it for granted.

Phil doesn't say anything. Barton doesn't either. But next time Phil goes to the cafeteria, Barton pushes out a chair for him and says, "Coulson." 

***

When dinner arrives, Phil opens the door while Barton hides in the bathroom. Officially, Phil's the only one staying here -- Barton's shooting style is already distinctive, they don't want anything else connecting Hawkeye to this job -- but he wishes they'd at least booked a double bed.

It's barely wide enough for him, but Phil still offers to share it. He ends up squashed shoulder to shoulder with Barton, trying to eat without elbowing each other. There's some kind of soap opera on TV, well dressed Chinese girls hissing angry words and then staring meaningfully towards the camera. Phil can't follow any of it, so he eats his beef and noodles, wishing he had a beer to wash down the spicy heat.

Barton's clearly following the storyline, from the way he frowns and reacts to bits of dialogue, pausing with chopsticks held halfway to his open mouth.

Phil waits until the next ad break to say, "Next time, remind me to order a few beers, too."

"Aren't safe houses supposed to be dry?"

Sometimes, Phil wonders about every handler who claimed Barton was insubordinate. Barton knows the rules and he's a stickler for following them, unless they're stupid rules that have no impact on the success of the mission. Expecting him to jump when you give an order is futile, but tell him why someone needs to jump and he'll be there before anyone else can volunteer.

Phil shrugs. He knows the rules as well as Barton. Losing control is a stupid idea, even if you think the safe house is secure. "Can we pretend I'll order beer next time?"

"Sure," Barton says easily, "you can even…" He trails off as the show returns from commercials. 

"Even what?"

"I don't know." Barton waves a chopstick in the air, but he doesn't look away from the staring match on the TV. "There was going to be a joke. Fill in your own."

***

Phil looks up at the rap on his office door. It's open as it usually is -- there's no point closing it. Maria and Nick would walk in regardless, and the rest of the agents know to wait for an invitation before stepping over Phil's threshold. Phil finishes reading his sentence and then looks up.

In the open doorway, Barton's leaning against the doorframe, thick arms crossed. "You got a minute?"

Phil closes the file on his screen. "I can spare ten."

Barton nods, expression serious. It looks out of place given the rest of his appearance: short blond hair scruffy, cargo shorts wrinkled and dusty, and there's a hole in the sleeve of his faded blue T-shirt. Peeking out the top of plain, worn-in boots, Phil can see one purple sock and one lime green sock. 

"I had a question about SHIELD regulations," Barton says, taking the seat opposite Phil's desk and turning it around. He straddles it, resting his forearms on the backrest. "I figured you'd probably know them."

"According to rumours, I read them every night before going to bed."

"That's because they're the most boring things ever written." A quick grin, a careless shrug, and this is why agents who don't know Barton underestimate him. The clothes, the mess, the chaos and the obvious questions: Barton uses it the way Phil uses bland suits and midwestern good manners. To be overlooked, to be dismissed as any kind of threat.

"Your question?"

"Due diligence on targets. 38-1C. How can I prove that's happened?"

"Which mission?"

"Sarajevo. Intel says it's an AIM base, but on paper, it's a school."

Phil turns to his computer and starts typing, searching for the mission plan. "Surveillance photos?"

"Empty buildings. Blurred satellite pictures." Barton sits up straighter, hands clenching on the chair. "Current plan is an explosion as exit cover. I'm not setting semtex if there's a chance of kids being there."

Phil smiles when he sees the name on the original analysis. "They've done the due diligence."

It's rare for seasoned agents to question Phil's word. If Phil says it's good to go, most agents would follow orders without hesitation. Barton's been here for six months, long enough to know Phil's level of authority. But he looks Phil in the eye and says, "Prove it," without any sign of being intimidated by the respected Agent Coulson. 

"You want to know if the due diligence has been done? Go and talk to the analysts who did the work," Phil tells him. "Go down to the third floor and ask for May. Get her to walk you through the site choice."

Barton nods, but he doesn't get up. Phil raises an eyebrow and Barton grins. He folds his arms over the back of the chair and rests his chin on his forearms. 

"Was there something else?"

"You said ten minutes. I've still got two left," Barton says, and Phil resists the fleeting urge to glance at his clock and check Barton's timekeeping.

Instead, he makes sure his face doesn't betray any hint of a smile, and keeps his voice dry. "Go. Now."

Barton sniggers as he leaves.

***

Phil wakes in the middle of the night, hotel room an outline of murky shadows around him. Barton's sitting on the bench, thick arms curled around his bent legs, head tucked into his knees.

For a moment, Phil wonders why he's awake. Then he hears a scrape of sound outside the window -- outside their sixth floor room -- and reevaluates. He takes a breath, bracing his shoulders and slides a hand down to the floor. There's a loaded gun tucked beside the bedside table, but they lose their advantage if he shows he's awake.

He reaches out fingertips and brushes cold, familiar metal. Phil hears hushed footsteps in the hallway as he stretches a hand down, pulls the grip towards him. When the door swings open, Phil pulls up the Glock and fires twice before they shoot back.

The first guy stumbles back, clean chest shots hitting good Kevlar, the force of the shots pushing him back and off-balance. The guy beside him raises a gun, but there's a smash of glass and another two coming through the window. Phil swivels to shoot at them -- aiming for the head now -- and takes the first one down. He hears another shot -- Barton -- as he aims for a dark outline of a body. There's a grunt and a scuffle, the telltale sound of a silenced gun being shot, as Phil squeezes the trigger and his second outline collapses into the carpet.

Phil swings his gun around, aiming at the noise near the door. He can't shoot without risking Barton. The dimmed lights from the hallway fall through the open door, showing a rectangle of light, catching on Barton's broad back, a fast-moving elbow, a kick blocked with a raised knee. There's the sound of fist connecting with flesh, dull thump of impact and a hiss of pain.

Barton pushes a foot against the wall, somersaulting backwards and Phil fires as soon as he's clear.

Three shots. Two more bodies on the carpet. Barton panting in the darkness on this side of the room.

Phil listens. There's a wheezing breath, but he can't hear any other footsteps. The sound of passing cars comes through the open window.

"Barton?" Phil asks calmly.

"Yeah, boss?" Barton's standing by the bathroom door, clear line of sight to the window.

"Status?"

"A scratch and some bruises. Had worse."

As much as Phil would like to turn on the light and see who these guys were working for, time is a factor. The team covered both exits and they were well armed, so they're professionals of some type. Silencers, so they were trying to be quiet.

If this were Phil's op, he'd have someone watching from outside, a contingency team ready to enter a few minutes later. Any sign it didn't go well -- like a light turning on unexpectedly -- and he'd send the secondary team in early.

"Get the bags. Stay in the shadows. We're out of here in two minutes."

"Yes, sir," Barton says, military sharp.

They take the goods lift down to the staff entrance. Barton walks out with a backpack and a gym bag slung over his shoulder and a baseball cap tugged low. Phil watches him from the doorway, gun ready, until Barton disappears into the alley's shadows.

He gives it another minute, then slides the gun into its holster and walks out.

At the other side of the alley, Barton's leaning against the wall, protecting his right side.

"Is it bad?" Phil asks, flicking his eyes to Barton's side. He knows Barton would mention anything life-threatening, but he needs to know anything that impacts their chances of getting out of here.

"Graze," Barton says with a careless shrug. He rolls his shoulders, stretching out the muscles. "I bandaged it."

Phil makes a mental note to check that for himself once they're somewhere safe. First things first, he needs a burner phone and a new extraction plan.

***

Barton's been with SHIELD for almost two years and this is the third time he's cracked a rib. On the one hand, Phil doesn't like seeing good agents get injured unnecessarily. On the other hand, Barton was swinging from an eight floor building as it collapsed beneath him and managed to avoid enemy fire, as he tucked and rolled onto a balcony, immediately pulled his bow and shot the four enemy agents running up the fire escape. Phil saw the whole thing from the end of the alley, as he tried to provide some covering fire and was amazed that Barton's luck held out.

Given the circumstances, a cracked rib and a few bruises means Barton got off lightly but he's still banned from the target range until the fractures have healed. A sensible agent would take the enforced rest as a vacation but for the third time this week, Phil finds Barton sitting in the cafeteria reading an inch-thick binder. Today, it looks like the latest geopolitical reports. Yesterday, it was the instruction manual for the helicarrier.

Phil doesn't want to think about where Barton's sourcing his reading material.

"Nothing better to do, Barton?" Phil asks, setting his tray at Barton's table. He has a plate of chicken and vegetable stir-fry, and a muffin for after and a glass of pineapple juice. Barton has his plate piled high with a variety of today's offerings. 

Barton throws a tater tot into the air, catching it in his open mouth. "Paperwork's up to date. I finally did that stupid OSHA online course and I completed my employee evaluation for next month. I'm not allowed to do anything that involves weight, pressure or impact."

"Have you considered a vacation? Morse is due back Tuesday. I'm sure the two of you could take a week somewhere."

"Nah, Bobbie and me, we're..." Barton grimaces, and then flicks his hands out, making a crash and burn sound.

Phil remembers Barton coming into his office and asking if an agent theoretically got hitched in Vegas, what sort of forms would he need to fill out with HR. He remembers Barton's wide grin, how his nose scrunched and his eyes crinkled up, and he looked happier than Phil had ever seen him. "It's over?" he asks carefully. 

Barton makes the crash and burn sound again. 

Phil looks down at the table. "Are you okay?"

"Better than I should be. Messy and ugly, but it was my fault. Definitely my fault." When Phil looks up, Barton's expression is complicated. There's guilt and regret, but there's also something lost and angry, and the smile he pastes over it doesn't hide enough. "I'm staying on base until I figure out a place of my own. Which was fine until I wasn't allowed to run or train or shoot. You know they revoked my pass? I can't even get the elevator to go to floors eight to twelve."

Phil raises an eyebrow at him. "Do you think that has anything to do with getting caught on a treadmill with crutches and a cast on a fractured ankle?" 

"It wasn't an ankle. It was my foot. Third metatarsal. And I wasn't putting any weight on it." Phil chews and swallows, staring at Barton until Barton shrugs. "Fine," he says, "maybe that had something to do with it."

"If you're really bored, come up to my office. You can help me review the submitted mission plans."

"Aw, more paperwork?" Barton whines, as if he doesn't enjoy the tactical challenge of planning a mission. As if he isn't one of the most strategic thinkers Phil's ever worked with. "How is that fair?"

"If you're going to hang around here, you might as well be useful."

***

"Remember me saying there was an international airport?" Barton asks, hitching the gym bag up on his shoulders as they walk through the white corridor to Departures. "Like, two days ago?"

"I remember," Phil says curtly.

"Good." Thankfully, Barton falls silent. It's been a long night, mostly spent on shadowed streets, waiting for updated orders and making sure they weren't followed. Phil doesn't have the patience for I-told-you-so right now.

Even if Barton is right. Even if he was right days ago. Quickest and easiest way home is going to be a commercial flight. They now have fake passports and real plane tickets, and Phil's looking forward to sleeping once their plane takes off.

Before they check in, Phil commandeers a disability bathroom and gets a good look at Barton's side. He eases off the adhesive around the bandage, reflexively apologizing when Barton hisses.

It's a nasty gash, already red-brown and starting to scab, but the skin around it is heated and flushed. Phil cleans it with saline and antibiotic powder, and opens a new bandage from the well-stocked medical kit in his bag.

Smoothing down the clear plastic adhesive around the bandage, Phil asks, "Painkillers?"

Barton shakes his head. "Don't want to be groggy."

"Okay." Phil fishes out a few broad spectrum antibiotics, just enough to give Barton's immune system a boost. "One now, one in six hours time."

Phil slips a row of painkillers into his own pocket.

***

Phil knows Barton doesn't like painkillers, much like Barton doesn't like getting fall-down drunk. Barton likes being in control of his choices. His decisions may be terrible, but they're his.

This time, painkillers are non-negotiable. Barton's recovering from surgery for a four-inch gash across his stomach, the kind of wound that had left Phil's cuffs soaked in blood as he tried to keep pressure on it while Natasha drove. They both know Barton would hate to be abandoned without control of his faculties, so Phil and Natasha have been taking shifts by his bedside.

Phil keeps his face completely still and lets Barton ramble with a sleepy grin and an IV full of oxycodone. Barton talks about his dog and Dog Cops and Natasha's favorite cupcakes and somehow the conversation drifts to nurses.

"Do you have, like, a thing for them," Barton says, leaning closer only to frown when he remembers the stitches in his abdomen. He settles back on the pillow and lowers his voice instead. "You could tell me. I won't tell anyone."

Phil doesn't let himself smile. "What sort of thing, Barton?

"Or is it the doctors? Is it a doctor fetish?" Barton's eyes are too bright, glassy and pupils dilated. There's a scrape over his temple and a bruise on the left side of his jaw. "Every time I end up stuck in here, you're always here."

"Natasha was here earlier," Phil points out, turning a page over in his folder and initialling as needed.

"That's different."

"How?"

Barton waves his hand, his wrist loose and surprisingly floppy. At least it seems surprising to Barton, who stops and stares at his hand. "Me and Nat have a deal."

"Nat and I," Phil corrects without thinking. As a general rule, he tries not to correct other adults in public but this morning he had to throw out a shirt stained brown with Barton's blood. It's been a long day. "What sort of deal?"

"No unsupervised surgery." Barton nods seriously, the movement slow and sluggish.

Phil's never discussed it with Natasha, but it's hardly new information. He's seen her insist on local anesthesia whenever possible, seen how sharply she watches any scalpel. There are a lot of things they don't know about the Red Room but Phil can take an educated guess on how much control agents had over medical procedures. He hasn't asked Natasha and he won't; there are things she shouldn't have to tell them unless she chooses to. 

"We look out for each other," Barton continues, "but you-- You come down even when it wasn't your mission. Even when I get injured working with another handler. You bring paperwork and sit there and stay."

Barton rubs his eyes, yawning and shifting on the pillows. He lies quietly, eyes closed, and Phil keeps working. He reads the file in front of him, making notes where needed, and occasionally glances up to find Barton watching him, eyes sleepy and half mast. "You could tell me, you know, if you had a thing."

"I could trust you with my secret crush on Dr Gideon?"

Barton snorts. Dr Gideon is sixty-four, happily married and a grandfather of four. "You'd never fall for someone who wears plaid sweater vests."

"No?"

"Not your type," Barton says, absolutely certain.

For a man who has a built a career on contingency plans, Phil has been known to take a few stupid risks. He's been known to grab the biggest gun and swagger into danger, because the unexpected sometimes works. Because he could. Because sometimes it's worth taking the chance. He closes the file on his lap and looks at Barton. "So what is my type?"

"Smart," Barton says, not blinking. He doesn't look away from Phil. "Adaptable. A little bit dangerous."

Phil swallows his discomfort. He feels exposed under Barton's unblinking stare. "Sound like anyone in particular?"

Barton shrugs. "Most of the people we work with. But not Dr Gideon."

The thing about Barton is that he is the most competent specialist and the most incompetent human being Phil has ever met. In the field, he is efficient, patient, strategic, and able to accomplish things no one else can. In life, he's impulsive and follows his heart without considering the consequences. He's earnest and hopeful, even when he hurts those around him.

He's a terrible boyfriend and husband. He forgets anniversaries, he remembers the wrong things and he lashes out at the first hint of being abandoned. Phil's seen that first-hand, so he knows Barton is a terrible choice.

And yet…

And yet he grins at Phil's jokes. He has a body that's all muscle, broad shoulders and biceps and strong thighs. He's kind and generous to others, even when it's at his own expense. His relationships may end with screaming fights but he somehow ends up being friends with all of his exes.

There are worse people Phil could have an inappropriate work crush on. Phil doesn't say any of that. Phil opens his folder and says, "Maybe it's one of the nurses," and Barton laughs.

"Nichols? She's threatened to suffocate me in my sleep, but never in front of witnesses. I'm pretty sure she could break an arm without trying too hard."

***

Check-in is fine but the flight is still four hours away. Phil has a novel open on his lap, a murder mystery he bought from inside the airport. He's really using it as a cover, turning the pages regularly but keeping his attention on the passing crowds. He hasn't seen anything out of the ordinary.

Barton slouches down in the plastic chair, leaning into his good side and scowling. He won't say he's in pain, but Phil can recognize that expression. 

Phil presses his palm against his pants, feeling the tablets in his pocket. There's no point offering them before they're safely in the air. Barton won't take them if it could impact his reaction time.

"You okay?" Phil asks instead.

Barton squints at him, pain and tiredness making him look angry. He grunts in reply. It's probably supposed to be some kind of agreement.

Phil glances over at the convenience store a few gates away. "Do you want anything?"

"To board the plane?" Barton shifts, grimacing as he moves his right side. "I'm good, boss. As good as I can be right now."

By the time they line up to board, Barton's looking pale, a permanent scowl line etched across his forehead. His fingers are clawed around the boarding pass but he manages a smile for the flight attendants when he hands it over.

Through the doors, down the walkway and then they stand in line to shuffle on to the plane. Barton doesn't say a word but he does give a groan when he sees the size of their seats.

They're in economy. Barton's shoulders barely fit in business class.

"Take the window," Phil says. It's only two inches more space but at least his injured side won't get elbowed.

Barton raises his eyebrow but clearly thinks better of saying something smart. "Should've brought the painkillers," he mutters, wincing as he steps sideways between the seats.

Phil fishes the row of tablets out of his pocket. He waits for Barton to ease himself into the seat, trying to hunch those well-muscled shoulders and biceps into the allotted space. Barton shifts but he can't make himself smaller than he is.

"Here," Phil says, holding the tablets out. Barton takes them and swallows two dry.

It's an awkward shuffle to get into his own seat, to twist his shoulders away from Barton and try to make the best of the space they've got. Phil watches the other passengers get on, and hopes someone under six foot is in the seat next to him.

It's slow the way commercial travel always is. The gathered crowd grumbling as they wait for the line to move, and then taking their sweet time to get carry-on bags stowed away and fussing about what they need before they sit.

He looks over to check on Barton, and finds Barton's already asleep: head tilted against the window, mouth hanging open. For a moment, Phil considers pulling out the thin travel blanket and tucking Barton in. Knowing Barton's reflexes, he doesn't want to risk it.

***

Phil tries not to have favorites. He genuinely tries but he knows he's not objective when it comes to Barton. If anyone else had perched on his desk and said, "Aw, come on, Coulson. Everyone else is doing the Secret Santa this year," Phil would have found a way to make sure their next mission was in the Antarctic. But Barton says it and pouts like he doesn't have the upper body strength to lift a motorcycle, and there's only so long Phil can keep his expression bland and unimpressed.

Finally, he rolls his eyes. "What's the price limit?"

"Ten dollars. The uglier and tackier the better. There will be a prize for the worst gift."

Barton keeps pouting until Phil sighs and gives a weary nod. "Fine."

"Great." Barton pulls a rumpled paper bag out of his pocket, opening it. He shakes the bag, making the paper rustle. "Take a name, then put your name in."

Phil reaches into the bag to pull out a scrap of paper. Placing it on the desk, he finds a post-it note, writes his name and then drops it into Barton's outstretched hand.

"Aren't you going to check to see who you got?" Barton asks, nodding at the folded page on Phil's desk.

"I'm buying an ugly present someone will hate. It doesn't matter who I picked."

"What if you got me?" Barton asks, grin hiding in the corners of his upturned lips. "Still going to get me an ugly present?"

"The ugliest archery related knickknack I can find," Phil lies smoothly. If he could stay safely anonymous, there's no telling what he'd buy Barton. Something big and personal, something too excessive for co-workers or even friends. A new compound bow tailormade for him or a new puppy under the guise of giving Lucky a bigger pack.

"I'm calling it now. You're going to get a tie." Barton pushes himself off the desk, crunching his paper bag of names in one hand. "An ugly tie."

"I'll use it for target practice," Phil promises and Barton laughs as he leaves. Phil turns back to his file and forces himself to read the next section before he picks up the scrap of paper and unfolds it. Disappointingly, it's Rumlow.

***

It's over four hours before Barton shifts and scowls and grumbles something unintelligible.

Phil raises an eyebrow at him. And waits.

There's a yawn, a wriggle as Barton tries to get comfortable, and then Barton points at the empty seat between them. "I asked if you had to kill someone for that seat."

There's color back in Barton's complexion and the scowl lines on his forehead have faded to tired, rather than murderously angry. It won't be a comfortable flight for him, but Phil's relieved by the improvement. "Ever tried to hide a body on a commercial flight?"

"If anyone could," Barton says, shrugging the end of the compliment. It still makes Phil smile.

"There were empty seats at the back of the plane. Our fellow traveller decided to move." Phil might have encouraged it by leaning into the guy's space and letting his elbow take up most of the armrest. "No violence required."

From the quick grin on Barton's face, he doesn't exactly believe Phil. "Did I miss the meal? Although, airplane food, eugh."

"I have seen you eat cold hot dogs. And melted ice-cream. On the same plate."

"Yeah, but airplane food is all--" Barton twists his fingers together and turns his hands. It could be sign language; it could be origami. "Fiddly."

"Fiddly?"

"More effort to open it than to eat it."

Personally, Phil likes a meal that's easy to eat. And years of MREs have given him practice at opening annoying packages. "We've got ten hours to go. You'll have to eat at some point."

Barton's face scrunches up but he doesn't argue it. Instead he stretches carefully, arms up and over his head. He pushes the armrest up and turns, pulling one leg up onto the spare seat.

The SHIELD jets are utilitarian, metal and unforgiving, but at least there's space to stand. "Do you want to walk around for a bit?" Phil asks, nodding at the aisle.

"I just want to get home."

Phil understands the sentiment too well. "They've got the last season of Dog Cops," he says, nodding at the tiny screens built into the seats in front of them.

Barton has been walking around injured, has killed without hesitation and has faced odds that would terrify most people. And yet he grins like it's Christmas. "I was halfway through that and my DVR died. Lucky and a backfiring taser-arrow, don't ask."

"Wasn't going to," Phil lies. He presses the attendant button and waits for a helpful air steward to appear. While Barton puts on earbuds and starts watching, Phil gets them snacks and another meal. He peels the lid off Barton's before he passes it over, and then hands him two more painkillers.

As expected, Barton's asleep within the hour, snoring while Dog Cops plays out on his screen.

***

Barton doesn't usually hang out in Phil's office. Maybe after missions when he's too wired to sleep, or the few hours before he heads out, when he's reviewing contingency plans and wants Phil's opinion, but he doesn't usually stand in Phil's doorway, arms folded and too quiet.

Barton's watching the floor as if the grey industrial carpet is an enemy base blueprint. Phil gives him a few minutes of silence but Barton doesn't say anything. He doesn't even look up at Phil's desk.

Phil finishes his report and sends it. Then he locks his screen. "You need something?"

Barton shrugs, cradling his arms tighter around his chest. It does unfair and incredible things for his biceps.

"Barton?"

"You could call me Clint," Barton mutters. "You call Nat Natasha so you could--" He stops himself with a huff and drags both hands through his hair.

"Do you want me to call you Clint?" To be honest, Phil's starting to get a little concerned. When Barton finally looks up and meets his eyes, Phil's relieved to see that Barton's pupils don't seem dilated or glassy, although he does look flushed.

"No, that's not the point. Like, at all. Look, I'm going to ask something and you're going to answer, and then it's done, okay?"

"I'm listening." Phil said the same thing in the same tone when Barton showed up after disappearing for six hours with the Black Widow. After six hours of not knowing and giving Barton the benefit of the doubt, and making contingency plans to hunt them both down if Barton didn't make contact by midnight.

Clearly, Barton recognises Phil's tone. "Jeez, it's not that bad. Just… you. Dinner."

"That's not a sentence, let alone a question."

"Do you-- I mean-- Shit," Barton curses with feeling. "Ever have one of those mission plans where you know it's going to be a disaster right from the start?"

Phil raises an eyebrow at him. "One of my plans?"

"Okay, no, when your plans get FUBARed there's always extenuating circumstances and we never know it going in." Barton gives a rusty chuckle but there's something flat about it. "I just-- I thought… Chinese? You, me?"

"Are you angling for the Shanghai mission?" Phil asks, keeping his expression mildly uninterested as he quickly considers what Barton might have meant. If that was supposed to be an invitation… or even a date, as unlikely as Phil's always considered it. That's a change to the status quo that Phil isn't prepared to deal with. Not right now. Not yet. "I was going to assign it to White and Gunderson. Should be easy."

Barton grins. It's the cheeky grin he gives Phil when he's been caught eavesdropping on superior agents or throwing nerf darts at the juniors. "Easy might be nice for a change. Even for you."

"Could be a good break from jumping off collapsing buildings," Phil says drily.

"You heard about Dubai?"

"Most of the helicarrier heard about Dubai. Vallas has been telling everyone how watching that stunt shaved ten years off his life."

Barton rolls his eyes, but there's a definite smirk to the corner of his lips. "Vallas worries too much. It was fine. So, Shanghai?"

"We'll leave in four days."

***

Phil's dozing lightly when Barton next wakes. "Bathroom," Barton says, gruff with sleep and Phil scowls, blinking himself awake. He unbuckles the safety belt and stands up, shuffling to the aisle to give Barton space to get out. Barton moves slowly, shoulders hunched awkwardly and his arm held stiffly at his right side, trying to protect the graze.

"You okay?" Phil asks quietly, standing back and giving Barton some space. The rest of the plane is dark in some approximation of night. Most of the other passengers are asleep or staring at their screens.

"How much longer?"

"Two hours."

Barton nods, forehead wrinkled in concentration. "I can do that. No more tablets, though. Won't have time to wear off," he says quietly and then walks to the mid-section bathrooms.

Phil takes the opportunity to walk around the plane, stretching stiff muscles. Sitting for hours after an adrenaline-fuelled night leaves him feeling a lot older than he is. Nothing that can't be fixed by a hot bath, a night's sleep on a horizontal surface and a good, hard run. Since he doesn't have any of those, he makes do with a few yoga stances, some lunges and a brisk walk up and down the plane.

When he gets back to their seats, Barton's already there with a few bags of assorted nuts spread on his tray. He's tearing them open and tipping them out, picking out the cashews first.

Once he's sitting and belted in, Phil leans over to take some of the peanuts. Given the situation, Barton looks as good as can be expected and Phil doesn't have anything to say. In comfortable silence, they pick at the nuts until there are only a few unloved walnuts left on Barton's tray.

Barton picks up a walnut, turning it between strong, capable fingers. He doesn't eat it. He just stares at it and toys with it as he says, "When I said you, me and Chinese, you knew I wasn't talking about a mission, right?"

Phil freezes, gauging the situation. They're trapped in a confined space for another two hours and Barton's injured, looking for a distraction. Probably best to tell him the truth. "Yes."

"Why?" Barton doesn't look over. He keeps staring at his hands, scowling at the walnut. "You could have said no. I'm a grown-ass man, Coulson. I could've handled it."

It feels strange to stare at Barton while Barton ignores him, but Phil couldn't look away if he tried. Barton's tired, t-shirt wrinkled and hair messy, lines etched into his face from discomfort and Phil still finds him attractive. It's baffling and inconvenient, but it's an undeniable fact. "I needed time."

"To decide? You couldn't have just said maybe?"

"I like having contingency plans. Options. Knowing--" Phil stops himself from treating this like a mission. It's not fair for him to hide behind their professional relationship. "I think there's a lot of reasons it wouldn't work between us. I'm not usually drawn to things I might not succeed at."

Barton's laugh is low and throaty. "When a mission looks impossible, it gets thrown to you to fix. You've never had a problem before."

"This isn't the same."

"Why not?"

"Because," Phil says, which isn't an answer at all. Barton gives him a baleful stare, and Phil knows he deserves it.

"That's a crappy answer."

"Because you make terrible decisions in your personal life. You jump in feet first and never consider other people until it's too late. You fall in love like it's a downhill ski run, and half the time you break your own heart on the way down." Phil takes an unsteady breath. He's not saying this right, he knows it, but maybe this is something that doesn't have any right words. "You open your heart up and hand it out like a trinket, Clint, and I don't want to be the next person to break it."

Barton shrugs, just one shoulder moving. "Then don't."

"It's not that simple."

"Yeah, it is. We've got better odds of dying next month than making it to retirement, and that makes life pretty simple. You want something, you go for it. You don't want it enough to try, you let it go and stop watching me like… like this could be something."

There's a charge in the silence between them, a held breath of promise waiting for Phil's response. Barton stares at him, refusing to break eye contact. Barton who follows Phil's lead even when there isn't time to explain the change in plans; Barton who can be cagey and sarcastic and challenging, but also brave and compassionate and dedicated. 

Phil's a planner, always has been, but he's walking in blind here. Unarmed in foreign terrain. He hates feeling incompetent, hates not knowing what to do, but this is too important not to try. "Dinner," Phil says finally. "There's an Ethiopian place on 44th. We could go Friday?"

"Sure," Barton says easily. He closes his eyes and settles back into the seat.

***

Phil leaves Barton sleeping as the plane lands. He leaves him sleeping for as long as he can, but eventually the movement of other passengers standing in their seats wakes him up. From the tension around his eyes, the painkillers have definitely worn off by now. "Back in New York?"

Phil nods. "Rahman's meeting us at the gate," he says, although Barton already knows it.

Barton shifts in his chair, pushing the armrest up and out of his way. Around them, tired passengers are standing up in their seats, pulling down bags from the overhead compartments and switching on their phones. It's as packed as Midtown at lunchtime, everyone standing and shuffling into messy queues. Phil stays seated and waits for the crowd to move.

"Friday," Barton says softly, like he's talking to himself. "This date had better be worth getting shot."

"You said it was a scratch," Phil replies, keeping his voice pitched low as the line of people starts moving.

"You could have just agreed in the first place."

Phil stands up as the crowd thins. He pulls their bags down and steps back, giving Barton space to climb past their seats and into the aisle. He hands the gym bag to Barton and smiles. "I thought you wanted a break," he says, and Barton rolls his eyes fondly.

Barton shakes his head. "That was not a break," he says, walking out of the plane.

"It was something," Phil mutters, walking after him. He takes a good look at Barton as he moves: the slight hunch over his injured side, the wide shoulders twisted to get through the narrow aisle, and the short, dirty blond hair at the nape of his neck. The way his jeans fit around his thighs. Phil forces his eyes up and reminds himself he's working.

Barton winks at him over his shoulder. "Still better than Budapest."

***

It's a small restaurant, nothing too fancy, but the food's good and the conversation is easy. Barton showed up in a pair of dark dress pants and an olive green button down -- he looked better than Phil had expected and it must have shown on his face because Barton scratched at the back of his neck and muttered, "Kate picked the clothes. She said my clothes made me look like a hobo."

"I would have said: survivalist seventy miles from the nearest Walmart," Phil said, and Barton snorted, grinning.

As far as dates go, it's been a good night. Even when they walk out of the restaurant and hit that awkward point where Phil's apartment is one direction and the closest subway station is the other way, Barton smiles, eyes raking over Phil. "I'll walk you home."

It's only a few blocks. Barton keeps his hands in his pockets the entire time, talking about the best hot dogs in Brooklyn, but every so often their shoulders brush. When they get to Phil's building, he asks, "Want to come up?" and Barton swallows.

"Usually, I'd say yes." Barton glances down at Phil's mouth, drags his eyes back up with an air of uncertainty. "But you made some good points about not rushing in."

"Barton--"

"Clint," Barton insists, then swipes his tongue over his lower lip. He leans a little closer and it would take a stronger man than Phil to resist leaning in to meet him. It's a careful kiss, light and timid, but it's barely over before Clint's kissing him again, lips lush and parted.

Phil curls a hand around Clint's biceps, letting his fingers dig into the firm muscle, and Clint sighs into the next kiss. Clint pulls back, just enough to lean his forehead against Phil's and says, "I should--"

"You should come upstairs," Phil finishes for him, still gripping Clint's impressive arms. In a sudden flash of clairvoyance, Phil knows he's going to explore those muscles with his mouth tonight. Maybe his teeth. He might leave marks.

Because it all comes down to this: Clint Barton is flawed and amazing, and Phil would be an idiot to let this chance pass him by. When Phil gets good news, he wants to share it with Clint; when everything goes wrong, Phil wants Clint beside him. And when the days are long, boring and ordinary, they're still made better by Clint.

"We can go slow," Clint says, watching Phil far too carefully. Waiting to try to gauge a reaction.

"No need." Phil doesn't want slow. Phil wants Clint stretched out across his sheets. He wants bare skin and bad jokes and that soft hint of a smile. He wants to wake up tomorrow and see how much they can do before either of them has to work. "Stay the night."

And Clint does what he always does, what he's done for so long Phil almost takes it for granted: he trusts Phil's judgement. "Okay."


End file.
